


A Red Red Rose

by Fyre



Series: Bend the Rules [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 15:47:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Izzy French knows what she wants. Mr Gold knows what he wants to try and resist. There can only be one victor.</p><p>Part three in the Shop set, featuring: <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/380209">'Understanding the Rules'</a> & <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/380275">'And Then...'</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Red Red Rose

**Author's Note:**

> I do wonder about my tendency to end up doing OUaT fics in threes. There's something inherently fairytale-ish about the number 3 (little pigs, bears, brothers in various stories, wishes etc). Dear subconscious, stop being a smartarse.

Izzy French knew what she liked.

She also knew what she wanted, and what she wanted was being a stubborn son of a bitch.

A week went by, and he was only cordial, although sometimes, she caught him looking at her like she was a prime piece of steak and he was a starving wolf. Of course, he never admitted it, never acknowledged, and only occasionally, touched her elbow to guide her out the door when they close up in the evening.

Sometimes, Izzy knew, you had to take matters into your own hands.

Literally.

She decided on a change of tactics. Unpinning her hair hadn't done the job. Changing from ankle-length dresses to above the knee had only meant more hungry stares, but nothing more than that. Adding a slash of red lipstick should have helped, but it didn't. 

It was time to catch by surprise, to shock, to titillate.

There was a dress she owned, one she kept for special occasions, and she knew it was time to bring out the big guns. It wasn't an especially fancy dress, just a pretty soft-skirted, knee-length blue one with a straight-topped front that went in a smooth line from shoulder to shoulder. It was the back, though, that made it. It spread in a V from an inch above her tailbone, opening out to widest point of her shoulders. Silky ribbons criss-crossed across and down into a bow at the base of her back, leaving just enough skin visible.

The ensemble looked respectable, especially when the back was hidden with a baby-blue cardigan, and her father complimented her on the fact she was finally dressing appropriately. She knew for a fact that he had been worrying about the ever rising hemlines of her skirts, but knee-length was modest enough for his tastes.

If he knew about her intentions with the dress, he would have a coronary.

She knew it caught Gold's attention the moment she walked into the shop in her matching strappy sandals.

Of course, he didn’t say a word, but she could feel his eyes on her as she shed her coat and hurried through to the back of the shop to hang it up. The cardigan stayed on. For now. That was for when he was really, really ready to be distracted.

She knew the dress was eye-catching itself. The skirt swirled up around her legs every time she hurried past him to collect something in the backshop, and as much as he tried to pretend he was reading through the books at the counter, she could hear the moment his pen scratched off the page when he glanced at her.

It was only when he went through to put the kettle on that she shed the cardigan and stepped around behind the counter to examine the books. Or, at least, pretend to, her arms resting on the counter, and the ribbons across her back shifting against her skin.

She heard the moment he noticed. He was not a naturally clumsy man, so when he dropped the teacup he was holding, she knew she had made exactly the impression that she had intended. 

Still, no harm in playing ignorant. She smiled and bent over the books and felt her skirt slide up the back of her thighs just enough to reveal the fine lace of flesh-coloured stockings.

If that didn’t break him, nothing would.

 

________________________________________

 

 

Gold liked to think of himself as a man capable of restraint.

Admittedly, it had hardly been restraint that pinned his assistant over the counter and spanked her until she moaned. Nor had it been restraint that allowed her to pleasure him with her wicked, smiling mouth.

It was, however, restraint that kept him from doing either such thing again.

The woman was not making it easy.

He couldn’t help noticing the increased amount of leg on display. Not enough to be shameless, but just enough to express an interest he really hoped was a passing crush. It was bad enough for her to want him in the Enchanted Forest, but in this world where she could and should deserve anyone, she deserved far better than him.

She was determined, he was ready to acknowledge it.

Every little change was calculated to draw his eye, and it worked. Her hair had never looked more invitingly soft. Her lips had never been redder and more in need of kisses. And her eyes. He tried to avoid them as much as possible, because the want in them was verging on the indecent.

He tried not to touch. He tried not to even think, when he was in her vicinity.

That was when she showed up for work in an elegant blue dress. It was far too fine for shop work. Her hair was also pinned up, with only a few curls loose around her shoulders. Beautiful and ladylike, and much, much easier to watch from afar, admiring like a precious jewel.

It was easier, for a moment, until he made a mistake and underestimated the vixen.

He was making tea in the back of the shop and emerged through the drape to see that she had shed her kittenish cardigan. His eyes widened at the sight of her back, half-hidden by criss-crosses of silken ribbon, and more especially what he could see peeking through. The cup slipped from nerveless fingers.

A tattoo. A rose. A scarlet rose. His rose, picked out in such intricate detail that he was almost sure he could pluck it from the very skin of her back.

She didn’t look, nor turn, but simply bent over the books, and he drew a breath as he caught a glimpse of lace circling her thighs. Stockings. Stockings and a laced dress and a tattoo he never knew she had.

If she had enchanted him, she could not have broken his resolve more easily.

He walked forward, tea forgotten about, until he was by her side. His left hand ghosted over her backside, teasingly soft through the fine fabric. “Checking my sums, dear?” he murmured.

She tilted her head to look at him with a small, not-quite-innocent smile. “You looked like you were having trouble.”

Trouble. Quite. In the shape of a brunette tease.

Well, he was not the Dark One of the Enchanted Forest if he could be outdone by a mere slip of a girl.

“Show me where I went wrong,” he murmured, bringing his face alongside hers to look down at the books. His hand moved lazily, shaping her backside through the skirt of her not so innocent dress. “If you can.”

Her blue eyes gleamed in satisfaction and she leaned sideways, enough to rest against his chest. “Well, let’s start with your basic arithmetic, or lack of it, and go from there,” she murmured.

“Begin,” he murmured, but he certainly wasn’t talking about the maths.

At first, she was confident, as ever, pointing at sums that didn’t add up, but as his hand moved, warm and knowing across her backside, and up towards the laces of her dress, her words became more hesitant. 

The knot was well-tied, but he was a spinner before all else, and any spinner knows how best to untangle knots.

The first two crosses of the ribbon were loosened when the bell jangled, and both of them looked up to see Emma Swan standing in the doorway.

“Miss Swan,” he murmured, sliding his fingers beneath the ribbons, between Isabelle’s skin and the dress. The wicked creature had forgotten to put on any underwear it seemed, and he squeezed her backside and watched the blush rise in her face as the Sheriff headed towards them. “You catch us in the middle of doing the books.”

“I only need a minute,” Emma said, with a nod to Isabelle, who waved a pen distractedly at her. “There’s been a spate of minor break-ins in the area.”

“Is that so?” Gold traced a finger down the crease of Isabelle’s buttocks and felt her shiver, even though she was fiercely staring at the book, as if she could make the numbers add up and his hand stop moving by willpower alone.

The Sheriff nodded. “I’m canvassing the area,” she said, once more grandly stating the obvious and Gold inclined his head, indicating she should continue. “Have you seen anything suspicious? Anyone hanging around? Doing anything they shouldn’t?”

“I’m afraid I can be of little use,” he said. “I seldom leave the shop and I certainly haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary.” His hand was venturing lower, curling his fingers inwards, and he had to hide a smile as Isabelle’s thighs twitched apart for him. “What about you, dear? Have you seen anything… untoward?”

Isabelle didn’t seem to hear, and out of mischievous spite, he flicked his index finger. She squeaked in surprise and looked up at Sheriff Swan, who looked back at her, clearly just as surprised as she was. Quite possibly because Isabelle was verging on scarlet in the face. “Um. No. Haven’t seen anything. Busy. With the books.”

“Figured as much,” Emma said with a sigh. “If you see anything, let me know? I’m pretty sure it’s those kids who want to think they’re the Lost Boys.”

“We’ll contact you,” Gold said. “And if you would be so kind as to turn the sign to closed when you leave?”

She threw a mock-salute at him, heading for the door, closing it behind her.

Isabelle shivered against his hand. “That wasn’t fair,” she moaned.

He laughed quietly. “I’m well aware of that,” he murmured, drawing his hand back from within her dress to loosen the ribbons, “but you started this little game, dear.” His fingertips left a damp trail on her skin, tracing across her spine with every crossover he drew free.

Isabelle tilted her head to look at him from beneath her lashes. “Me?” she murmured, catching his other hand and pulling it from his cane, which fell away with a clatter. She pressed his hand to her breast, and he could feel the hardened nub of her nipple. He massaged it slowly with his palm. “It was never me,” she breathed. “Always us.”

Her body pressed into his, her hip against his groin, and he groaned softly. 

She smiled, small and knowing, and leaned up to kiss him for the first time. Her mouth was warm and soft and tasted like peppermint and sugar. His hands faltered at the ribbons and it took all the restraint that he was struggling to retain not to drag her onto the floor and have her right there and then.

“The books need to be finished,” he murmured against her lips. 

“And you’re still a bastard,” she whispered as his right hand slid slowly down the front of her body. He curled his fingers again and again, dragging the front of her skirt up over her knees, thighs and up, until he could touch as he willed.

“The books, dear,” he murmured, cupping his hand gently between her thighs, yet not quite touching her. “I assure you it will be worth your while.”

Her mouth claimed his suddenly and forcefully. “It better be,” she whispered, snatching up the pen again. “You’re crap at math.”

He laughed throatily and drew his fingers along her skin, making her shiver. His other hand was back to work on the lacings of her dress. Cascades of ribbon were pouring onto the floor, inches at a time, and Isabelle was shifting her hips demandingly against his hand.

“Patience,” he whispered, circling around behind her when the last of the ribbon fell. He knew her back would be beautiful, but as he looked down at it, he found his breath catching in his chest. The tattoo which would have been garish and repellent on anyone else looked right, part of her, and the inkwork was beautifully detailed.

He lowered his head and kissed the very edges of the petals. Isabelle arched with a cry, as if he had stung her, and he grinned in delight. Sensitive, was she? He traced the edge of the petals with his tongue, even as his fingers moved between her thighs, from both back and front. 

“That… that’s not fair,” she whimpered, her hips twitching.

“Indeed not,” he whispered, then bit gently, drawing the soft, pale skin to the point of redness, before soothing it with a swipe of his tongue. He heard the pen ricochet off the register and bounce away across the floor. 

“The books,” he breathed against the skin so recently dampened by his tongue.

“Fuck the books!” Isabelle exclaimed raggedly, and judging from the swipe of her arm, they followed the pen to the floor. He couldn’t care less, too caught up in tasting every inch of the ravishing creature in front of him. His teeth and lips were leaving a trail of gentle bruises and bitemarks the length of her pale, flawless back, and he knelt slowly, carefully for his bad knee.

Only then did he withdraw his hands, and with a shake of her hips, Isabelle’s dress landed in a silk pool around her feet.

Gold’s breath caught as he looked up at her, unadorned and glorious, and he released a trembling sigh when she pivoted to face him, shameless and smiling like some wondrous and benevolent Goddess.

“You said it would be worth my while,” she purred, running a toe up his thigh.

“Only if you did the books,” he replied hoarsely, though he rose on his knees, catching her thighs and drew her hips closer. She leaned back against the counter, and lifted one leg to drape it over his shoulder to draw him nearer.

Just when he thought she couldn’t surprise him anymore…

He pressed his lips to her, where only fingers had ventured before, and she murmured his name approvingly, her calf dragging against his back. Her thigh was warm, soft beside his cheek, and he ran his hand along it as he dragged his tongue against her. 

Her hips twitched gently against his mouth and with every twitch, he licked more eagerly, tasting, devouring, the fingers of his other hand slipping upwards to find her centre, plunge into her and make her squirm so much more.

He made a low sound of approval in his throat when one of her hands sank into his hair, nudging him deeper, harder, and she was making the most addictive sounds he had ever heard, low, breathless and hungry little moans as she rocked on her toes, pushing against his mouth and hand, her fingers tangling into his hair.

She was trembling as he added another finger, and his thumb took the place of his tongue so he could draw back enough to watch her. Her head was flung back, her back a perfect arch, and she was gasping out his name at the ceiling.

“Belle,” he whispered, and gave her that last little push with fingers and thumb, to draw that wonderful scream from her throat.

As her legs gave out beneath her, he was there to catch her, both of them sitting in a heap behind the counter, one of her legs still inexplicably draped over his shoulder, the other resting across his lap. She leaned back against the rule-bound shelf, almost every jar knocked onto its side, and grinned at him like the cat who had cream-dipped canary for dinner.

“Satisfied?” he murmured, caressing the thigh still resting against his chest.

“Not remotely,” she purred, leaning up and pulling his mouth onto hers, licking the very taste of her from his lips. Her hands were moving too, and his belt was undone before he even realised what she was doing.

“Belle,” he cautioned. “We shouldn’t…”

“Shut up, Rumpelstiltskin,” she whispered, leaving him gaping long enough to pull off his tie and unfasten his trousers.

“Wh-what?”

She looked up at him, and smiled quietly. “You have to remember what we were,” she said. “You recognised my rose.” She kissed his lips again gently. “Don’t worry. It only came back to me after you…” She grinned at him. “Well, anyway, I’ve been wanting to do this for years.”

“This?” he asked then drew a gasping breath when she wrapped a hand around him.

“You,” she whispered into a kiss.

He made a soft, needy sound, and Belle - his Belle, truly his Belle - laughed huskily, sprawling back on her dress on the floor, drawing him over her, shirt hanging all over and trousers barely pushed down beyond his hips.

She was smiling, eyes shining, as she guided him to her entrance with one hand, the other cradling the back of his head, and every moment she could, she was kissing him, his lips, his cheeks, his brow, his nose, his eyelids. As he slipped inside her, she wrapped her arms and legs around him, as if she never intended to let him go.

He buried his face in her shoulder, kissing her throat and hiding his eyes that were burning and moist, and she moved beneath him, gently urging him, and who was he to refuse such an invitation?

He lifted his head to look at her, his hands at her hips, pulling her closer, and he started to move against her. She arched beneath him and their kisses were frenzied desperate, three decades without crashing in on them , and all the grief and loneliness brushed away by the heat of the moment. 

She was laughing and crying, and he was kissing her hungrily, greedily, taking everything he had pushed away so many years ago, holding her closer and closer, even as his knees slipped on the tiled floor and their shoulders knocked against the counter. None of that mattered as she wrapped her legs tight around him and pulled him close, and his world was suddenly and wonderfully perfect.


End file.
